Pot Luck Read online

  ‘Really?’ exclaimed Madame Josserand in delight. ‘She plays rather well, I must admit. You know, we’ve never refused her anything; she’s our treasure! She has every talent she ever wished for. Ah! if you only knew her, sir.’

  Once more a confused sound of voices filled the room. Berthe coolly accepted all the praise bestowed upon her performance, and did not leave the piano, waiting for her mother to relieve her from her duty. The latter was just telling Octave of the remarkable way her daughter played ‘The Reapers’, a brilliant tour-de-force, when a dull, far-off sound of knocking created a stir among the guests. The noise grew louder and more violent, as if someone were trying to break open a door. The guests stopped talking, and exchanged questioning glances.

  ‘What’s that noise?’ Valérie ventured to ask. ‘I heard it just now, when the music was ending.’

  Madame Josserand had turned quite pale. She had recognized Saturnin’s blows. The wretched lunatic! She imagined him leaping into the room and scattering her guests. If he went on thumping like that, there would be another marriage down the drain!

  ‘It’s the kitchen-door that keeps banging,’ she said with a forced smile. ‘Adèle never shuts it. Go and see to it, Berthe.’

  Her daughter had also understood. She rose and disappeared. The knocking ceased at once, but she did not return immediately. Uncle Bachelard, who had scandalously disturbed the performance of ‘The Banks of the Oise’ with his loud remarks, succeeded in disconcerting his sister by shouting out to Gueulin that he was bored to death and was going to get some grog. They both returned to the dining-room, slamming the door after them.

  ‘Dear old Narcisse—he’s so eccentric!’ Madame Josserand said to Valérie and Madame Juzeur, as she sat down between them. ‘He works so hard at his business! You know, he made nearly a hundred thousand francs this year!’

  Free at last, Octave had rejoined Trublot, who was half asleep on the sofa. Near them a group surrounded Doctor Juillerat, the old neighbourhood physician, a man of little talent, but who, by degrees, had built up a good practice, having attended all the mothers in their confinements and prescribed remedies for all their daughters’ ills. He had made a speciality of women’s ailments, so that in the evenings he was besieged by husbands eager to obtain free advice in some corner of the room. Théophile was just telling him that Valérie had had another attack the day before; she was always short of breath and complaining of a lump in her throat;* and he himself was not very well, but his symptoms were not the same. Then he talked of nothing but himself, and of his bad luck. He had begun to study law, had dabbled in industry at an iron foundry, tried administrative work in the pawnshop offices. Then he had taken up photography, and believed he had discovered a patent for automatic cabs; and at the same time he had got a commission on the sale of piano-flutes, invented by one of his friends. He eventually returned to the subject of his wife; it was her fault if things never went right for them; she was killing him with her perpetual nervous attacks.

  ‘Do give her something, doctor,’ he pleaded, his eyes gleaming with hatred, as he coughed and moaned in all the mad exasperation of impotence.

  Trublot watched him, full of disdain, laughing inwardly as he glanced at Octave. Doctor Juillerat, meanwhile, uttered vague and soothing words: doubtless something could be found to help the dear lady. At the age of fourteen she used to have similar attacks at the shop in the Rue Neuve-Saint-Augustin; he had treated her for dizzy spells, which had always ended with nosebleeds. And as Théophile recollected in despair her languid apathy as a girl, while now she was a source of torture to him—capricious, her mood changing a score of times every day—the doctor simply nodded his head. Marriage did not agree with all women.

  ‘No, it certainly doesn’t!’ murmured Trublot. ‘A father who’s turned himself into a vegetable by spending thirty years of his life selling needles and thread, and a mother whose face has always been a mass of pimples, and living in that stuffy hole of a shop—how can you expect such people to produce normal daughters?’

  Octave was surprised. He had begun to lose some of his respect for this drawing-room, which he had entered with all the awe of a provincial. His curiosity was reawakened when he saw Campardon consulting the doctor in his turn, but whispering, like a serious person who does not want anyone to know about his domestic misfortunes.

  ‘By the way,’ said Octave to Trublot, ‘as you seem to know everything, tell me what’s the matter with Madame Campardon. Whenever her ill-health is mentioned I see everyone put on a very sad face.’

  ‘Well, my dear fellow,’ replied the young man, ‘she’s got …’

  And he whispered in Octave’s ear. At first his listener smiled, then his face became very serious with a look of deep astonishment.

  ‘Is it possible?’ he said.

  Trublot gave his solemn word that it was so. He knew another lady who had the same thing.

  ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘after a confinement it sometimes happens that …’

  And he began to whisper again. Octave, convinced, felt quite sad. For a moment he had imagined all sorts of things—romance, the architect occupied elsewhere and urging him to provide amusement for his wife! At any rate he knew now that her honour was safe. The young men pressed closer against each other in the excitement of disclosing all these feminine secrets, forgetful that they might be overheard.

  Just then Madame Juzeur was imparting to Madame Josserand her impressions of Octave. She certainly thought him most agreeable, but she preferred Monsieur Auguste Vabre. This gentleman stood, mute and insignificant, in a corner of the room, with his usual evening headache.

  ‘What surprises me, my dear, is that you haven’t thought of him for your daughter Berthe. A young man established in business and extremely steady. He wants a wife, too. I know he’s interested in getting married.’

  Madame Josserand listened in surprise. She would never have thought of the haberdasher. Madame Juzeur, however, insisted, for, unfortunate herself, it was her passion to work for the happiness of other women, so that she took an interest in all the romantic affairs of the house. She declared that Auguste had never taken his eyes off Berthe. In short, she invoked her own experience of men: Monsieur Mouret would never let himself be caught, whereas a match with that nice Monsieur Vabre would be very easy and very advantageous. But Madame Josserand, weighing up the latter with a glance, felt quite sure that a son-in-law like that would never be of much use in filling her drawing-room.

  ‘My daughter hates him,’ she said, ‘and I’ll never go against her feelings.’

  A gawky young lady had just played a fantasia on the Dame Blanche.* As uncle Bachelard had fallen asleep in the dining-room, Gueulin reappeared with his flute and gave imitations of the nightingale. Nobody listened, however, for the story about Bonnaud had spread. It had quite upset Monsieur Josserand; fathers held up their hands in horror, while mothers gasped for breath. What! Bonnaud’s son-in-law was a clown! Whom, then, could they trust? The parents, in their lust for marriage, were as distressed as if they had had nightmares about distinguished-looking convicts in evening-dress. As a matter of fact, Bonnaud had been so delighted to get rid of his daughter that he had hardly bothered with references, despite his rigid prudence as a fussy chief accountant.

  ‘Mamma, tea’s ready,’ said Berthe, as she and Adèle opened the folding doors.

  Then, as people passed slowly into the dining-room, she went up to her mother and whispered:

  ‘I’ve had about enough of it! He wants me to stay and tell him stories, or else he says he’ll smash everything.’

  On a grey cloth, too small for the table, one of those laboriously served teas was spread, with a brioche bought at a neighbouring baker’s and flanked by sandwiches and little cakes. At either end of the table were flowers in profusion; magnificent and expensive roses prevented anyone from noticing the stale biscuits and rancid butter. There were more cries of admiration and more heart-burnings; those Josserands were clearly ruining the
mselves in their attempt to marry off their daughters. The guests, casting sidelong glances at the flowers, gorged themselves with weak tea and threw themselves upon the stale buns and badly baked brioche, for they had dined frugally, and their one thought was to go to bed with their bellies full. For those who did not like tea, Adèle handed round redcurrant syrup in glasses. This was pronounced excellent.

  Meanwhile the uncle slumbered in a corner. They did not wake him; they even politely pretended not to see him. One lady spoke of the fatigues of business. Berthe was very busy, offering sandwiches, carrying cups of tea, asking the men if they would like more sugar. But she could not attend to everybody, and Madame Josserand kept looking for Hortense, whom she suddenly caught sight of in the middle of the empty drawing-room talking to a gentleman whose back alone was visible.

  ‘Yes, yes!’ she blurted out, in a sudden fit of wrath, ‘he’s come at last!’

  The guests began to whisper. It was that Verdier, who had been living with a woman for fifteen years while waiting to marry Hortense. Everybody knew the story, and the young ladies exchanged meaningful glances; but for propriety’s sake they forbore to speak of it, and merely bit their lips. When Octave had been enlightened, he watched the gentleman’s back with interest. Trublot knew the mistress, a good-hearted woman—a reformed prostitute, who was better now, he said, than the best of wives, looking after her man and keeping all his shirts in order. He was full of brotherly sympathy for her. While they were being watched from the dining-room, Hortense was scolding Verdier for being so late, rebuking him with the peevishness of an embittered virgin.

  ‘I say! Redcurrant syrup!’ said Trublot, seeing Adèle standing before him, tray in hand. Sniffing at it, he declined. But as Adèle turned round she was pushed against him by a stout lady’s elbow, and he squeezed her waist hard. She smiled, and came back with the tray.

  ‘No, thanks,’ he said. ‘A little later, perhaps.’

  The ladies were now sitting round the table, while the men stood, eating, behind them. Enthusiastic exclamations were heard, which subsided as mouths became full. The gentlemen were asked for their opinions.

  Madame Josserand exclaimed:

  ‘True; I was forgetting. Come and look, Monsieur Mouret—you’re fond of art.’

  ‘Be careful! That’s the watercolour trick,’ murmured Trublot, who knew all the ways of the house. It was better than a watercolour. As if by chance, there was a porcelain bowl on the table, on the bottom of which, in a mount of freshly varnished bronze, was a miniature copy of Greuze’s ‘Girl with a Broken Pitcher’,* painted in washy tints varying from lilac to pale blue. At the chorus of praise Berthe smiled.

  ‘Mademoiselle is very talented,’ said Octave, in his most urbane manner. ‘The colours are so well blended! And such a wonderful copy!’

  ‘The drawing certainly is!’ said Madame Josserand, exultant. ‘There’s not a hair too many or too few. Berthe copied it at home from an engraving. At the Louvre there are so many nude subjects, and such strange people, too.’

  As she made this last remark she lowered her voice, anxious to assure the young man that, although her daughter was an artist, this did not mean that she was unable to keep within the bounds of propriety. However, she clearly thought that Octave seemed indifferent; she felt that the bowl had not made its mark, and she watched him uneasily, while Valérie and Madame Juzeur, who had got to their fourth cup of tea, were uttering faint cries of admiration as they examined Berthe’s masterpiece.

  ‘You’re looking at her again,’ said Trublot to Octave, who was staring at Valérie.

  ‘So I am,’ he replied, somewhat confused. ‘It’s funny, but just now she looks quite pretty. A hot-blooded woman, obviously. I say, do you think one might risk it?’

  Trublot puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘Hot-blooded? You can never be sure. Strange you should fancy her. Anyway, it’s better than marrying that little girl.’

  ‘What little girl?’ cried Octave, forgetting himself. ‘What? Do you think I’m going to let myself be caught? Never! We don’t go in for marriage in Marseilles.’

  Madame Josserand, who was standing close by, overheard the last phrase. It was like a stab-wound to the heart. Another fruitless campaign, another wasted soirée. The blow was such that she had to lean against a chair as she despairingly surveyed the table, now cleared of all refreshment, on which there only remained the burnt top of the brioche. She no longer counted her defeats; but this, she resolved, would be the last. Never again, she swore, would she feed folk who simply came to stuff themselves. In her exasperation, she looked round the room to see at which man she could hurl her daughter, when she spied Auguste leaning listlessly against the wall, having had nothing to eat.

  Just then Berthe, all smiles, was moving towards Octave with a cup of tea in her hand. She was carrying on the campaign in obedience to her mother’s instructions. But the latter seized her by the arm and called her a silly fool under her breath. Then she said out loud, in her most gracious manner:

  ‘Take that cup of tea to Monsieur Vabre; he’s been waiting a whole hour.’

  Then, whispering again in her daughter’s ear, and giving her another warlike look, she added: ‘Be nice, or you’ll have me to deal with!’

  Berthe was disconcerted for a moment, but quickly recovered. Such changes in the line of attack occurred as often as three times in an evening. She took the cup of tea to Auguste, together with the smile she had begun to wear for Octave. She made herself most agreeable, talked about Lyons silks, and gave herself the airs of an engaging young lady who would look charming behind a counter. Auguste’s hands trembled a little, and he was very red, since that evening his headache was worse than usual.

  Out of politeness, some of the guests went and sat down again for a moment in the drawing-room. They had eaten well, and now it was time to go. When they looked for Verdier he had already left, and the girls in their merriment could only take away with them the blurred impression of his back. Without waiting for Octave, Campardon went away with the doctor, whom he stopped on the landing to ask if there was really no hope. During tea one of the lamps had gone out, leaving a smell of rancid oil; the other lamp, with its burnt wick, gave such a lugubrious light that the Vabres rose of their own accord, despite the profuse attentions with which Madame Josserand overwhelmed them. Octave had preceded them into the anteroom, where he had a surprise. Trublot, who was looking for his hat, had disappeared. He could only have made his exit by the passage leading to the kitchen.

  ‘Wherever has he got to? Does he use the servants’ staircase?’ murmured the young man.

  However, he thought no more about the matter. Valérie was there, looking for her crêpe scarf. The two brothers, Théophile and Auguste, were going downstairs, without taking any notice of her. Octave, finding the scarf, handed it to her with the air of rapt attention with which he served pretty customers at the Ladies’ Paradise. She looked at him, and he felt certain that her eyes, as they met his, shot forth amorous flames.

  ‘You’re too kind, sir,’ she said, simply.

  Madame Juzeur, who was the last to leave, gave them both a smile, at once tender and discreet. And when Octave, greatly excited, had got back to his cold bedroom, he glanced at himself in the mirror and determined that he would have a try for it!

  Meanwhile, Madame Josserand was pacing up and down the deserted apartment, not saying a word, as if swept along by a whirlwind. She shut the piano with a bang, put out the last lamp, and then, going into the dining-room, began to blow out the candles with such force that the sockets shook. The sight of the devastated table, covered with dirty plates and empty cups, enraged her even more, and as she walked round she cast terrible glances at her daughter Hortense, who sat calmly crunching the burnt top of the brioche.

  ‘You’re getting yourself into a state again, mamma,’ said the latter. ‘Did it go wrong again? I’m quite happy, though: he’s going to buy her some chemises so as to get rid of her.’

  Ma
dame Josserand shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Ah!’ continued Hortense, ‘you’ll say that that proves nothing. All right, but steer your ship as well as I steer mine. Well, this really is a vile brioche. They must be desperate if they can eat this filth.’

  Monsieur Josserand, who always found his wife’s parties exhausting, was leaning back in his chair; but, dreading another confrontation—that Madame Josserand might sweep him aside in her fury—he joined Bachelard and Gueulin, who were sitting at the table opposite Hortense. Bachelard, on waking, had found a flask of rum. As he emptied it, he returned to the bitter subject of the twenty francs.

  ‘It’s not the money I mind,’ he kept repeating to his nephew, ‘it’s the way they did it. You know how I am with women; I’d give them the shirt off my back, but I don’t like them to ask like that. As soon as they begin asking it annoys me, and I wouldn’t give them a penny.’

  Then his sister began reminding him of his promises:

  ‘Hold your tongue, Eléonore!’ he barked. ‘I know what I ought to do for the child! But when a woman asks like that, it’s more than I can stand. I’ve never been able to keep friends with one, have I, Gueulin? And besides, I’m given such little respect! Léon hasn’t even bothered to wish me many happy returns of the day!’

  With clenched fists, Madame Josserand resumed her pacing. It was true; Léon had promised to come, but, like the others, had let her down. A man who wouldn’t give up an evening even to get one of his sisters married! She had just found a little cake which had fallen behind one of the vases, and was locking it up in a drawer, when Berthe entered the room with Saturnin, whom she had gone to release. She was trying to soothe him as, haggard and with a look of mistrust in his eyes, he hunted feverishly about in the corners of the room like a dog that has been shut up for a long time.

  ‘How silly he is!’ said Berthe; ‘he thinks I’ve just got married, and he’s looking for the husband! My dear boy, you can look as long as you like! I told you it had all come to nothing. You know very well that it never does come to anything!’